


At the Seams

by phornex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (just a bit of smut), Auror Harry Potter, Awkward Conversations, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-09 04:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16442708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phornex/pseuds/phornex
Summary: When the DMLE's Auror department gets itself a modern new uniform, Harry finds himself struggling with a rather awkward tailoring problem - but he's still getting off easy compared to his colleagues. Who's responsible for the department-wide wardrobe malfunction? Can you intimidate a dark wizard with rabbits on your feet? And it is ever okay to touch yourself in a workplace toilet cubicle?





	At the Seams

**Author's Note:**

> This ridiculous idea came to me as a short 2k words of nonsense, and then ran away from me during writing. Whoops. I wrote the first draft in two sittings, then spent a month or so occasionally chipping away at millions of editing notes. I wrote the Floo conversation while sitting in The Elephant House in Edinburgh. The whole thing is un-beta'd. I'm on tumblr at **phornex** if you wanna say hi! Enjoy, and feel free to leave a comment, I love them!

****Harry had just started writing up the report for his latest case when Ron burst into the room.

“They’re here! The new uniforms!”

Harry grimaced. The department had been waiting for a shipment of new uniforms to replace the ones they’d been wearing since the 90s. Apparently Robards had been approached by a local designer with a proposal for state-of-the-art Aurorwear, promising new modifications and charms to “bring the department up to date”.

Harry liked his current uniform. It was comfortable, practical, and forgiving. The few times he’d had to wear dress uniform, he’d felt constricted, stiff, his feet had rubbed in the polished brogues. It had been completely impractical for actually taking down a criminal, and he’d said as much to Robards, who quickly rebuffed him with a lot of talk about “Keeping our reputation up!” and “Making sure people know we’re still here!”

Robards’s insecurity about the department was understandable. The Ministry was always quick to point out that DMLE arrest rates were down from five years ago, as if five years ago Wizarding Britain hadn’t been recovering from a devastating civil war. Harry assumed it was the same insecurity that had led to Robards taking the offer of new uniforms. Make them more noticeable, show people that they were still out there, still necessary, even if the Wizarding world was more peaceful now than it had been five years ago. Garner some good public opinion, keep the Ministry from cutting their budget even further.

Unfortunately, Harry also liked that his uniform made him invisible. Witch Weekly had run a centre-page special when he’d started working as an Auror, but public interest had waned ever since he’d made a point of only ever being seen in public in the same two boring outfits: his work robes, or a black t-shirt and jeans. A new Auror uniform meant a surge of publicity and visibility that he could well live without.

“Come on,” said Ron, who was much more excited about the idea of a fancy new uniform, “Let’s get down there and see what they’re like.”

*

Down in the main hall, Robards had several mannequins set up, modelling the new uniforms. Ron gasped, and even Harry had to admit that they looked good, if a bit impractical. The new uniforms cut an imposing figure, and the designer had gone for a largely monochrome colour palette. Each mannequin wore a charcoal grey dress shirt and tie. There was a waistcoat in matching charcoal, which had a faint hand-stitched golden paisley pattern, and gold buttons bearing the Ministry insignia. A wand holster wrapped around the waist and one thigh, strapped with brown leather against fitted black trousers. Over the whole outfit hung soft dark grey Auror robes, accented with gold shoulder pieces. One mannequin also sported a long, heavy-duty cape, black and lined with thick grey fleece. It and the display robes had been charmed to billow as if the mannequin were in hot pursuit of a criminal, a neat piece of spellwork that added a striking, dramatic touch to the display.  
  
"Blimey," Harry said, feeling suddenly underdressed, "This is a bit much, isn't it?"

Robards was in his element, gleefully detailing the specifications to the gathering crowd.

“These uniforms have got everything an effective squad needs to stay alert and efficient in the field! Warming charms, reactive cushioning charms, even some light shield magic weaved into the pressure points! The designer has studied the needs of our Aurors extensively, and each uniform is charmed to perfectly fit its wearer. Well, just ask our live models here!” He gestured to a group of junior Aurors who were standing awkwardly behind him, already wearing the new designs.

One of the junior Aurors shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… a bit itchy,” he said, apologetically. As Harry looked closer, he realised that the other juniors didn’t look particularly comfortable either; the young witch with the buzzcut was red-faced and tugging at her collar, and the largest junior was subtly redistributing his weight from foot to foot, toes flexing to adjust to the new boots.

“Ah, they’ll just take a bit of getting used to. Takes the magic a while to settle into its wearer, I’ll wager. Right troops, away you go, two uniforms each, I want you in these before lunch.”

*

Half an hour later, Ron’s excitement had deflated slightly. “It’s too big,” he complained loudly into the Auror locker room, which was empty except for him and Harry. “I mean, who are these shoes supposed to be for? I can barely walk without tripping over.” He looked miserable.

All the Aurors had come out with various complaints; the uniforms were too big, too small, the warming charms were too hot, the self-tying laces were too tight. One poor Auror found that the responsive cushioning charm designed to prevent injury in fights was prone to triggering whenever he sat down.

“It’s a bit weird,” Harry agreed, “Where did Robards source these from? Not like him to cut costs.”

“Anonymous donation, apparently. Only Robards knows. Probably—ugh,” Ron stopped to wrestle with his tie, which was attempting to wrap itself into a Windsor knot around his wrist. “Probably to save their own reputations,” he finished, flinging the tie to the floor.

Any sympathy Harry might have had for Ron was quickly replaced by his own trepidation, as he began to undress. When he was down to his boxers and socks, he looked at the folded uniform with suspicion. Then he sighed, and began to put it on.

He started with the shirt. It looked like cotton, but when he picked it up it flowed like silk, and as he put his arms into the sleeves, he felt like he was sinking into a warm bath. The material glided and settled across his body, wrapped across his chest, and Harry watched as each button slipped deftly into its hole. “Fuck,” he whispered.

Ron stared, wide-eyed. “How did you do that? Mine took ages, they’re so fiddly. Felt like they were slipping out of my fingers on purpose.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, “I didn’t do anything.” The shirt was unbelievably comfortable. He tried lifting his arms above his head, and found that the fabric flexed and stretched with him. The wrist cuffs didn’t even ride up; instead, gold cufflinks twirled like spinning tops against the dark grey sleeves, and the shirt moved with him. “It’s… nice.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron scoffed, “Wait until you get the trousers on. I feel like I’m wearing Bill’s hand-me-downs again.”

“Better Bill’s than Percy’s,” Harry grinned, and Ron made a face, nodding in agreement.

Harry reached for the trousers—black, perfectly pressed, and in a heavy fabric that Harry felt sure would be too hot—and stepped into them. The fabric pulled from his grip and the trousers slipped up his calves, up his thighs, and drew a short gasp from Harry as they fit themselves perfectly around his groin. The belt reached his hips, scooped the shirt fabric in to a perfect tuck, and then clasped itself with a gentle _clink_. The fly and button had taken care of themselves too. Harry blinked. That was... not an altogether unpleasant experience. The fabric wasn’t too hot; in fact it almost felt like he wasn’t wearing trousers at all. He walked a few steps around the locker room, and gave an experimental lunge, ignoring Ron’s snort of laughter.

“How are they?”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, “Just right.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Trust you to get the only bloody uniform that fits.” Harry knew there was no malice in it; over the years, Ron’s jealousy had been replaced by the sort of security and self-assuredness that Harry supposed was a natural result of being married and settled down and living above the breadline.

“I dunno,” he replied, “There’s still loads to go. I mean look at all this. We’ll look like we’re going to a ball. The tie, the waistcoat, the _gold shoulder pads_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“I think they’re called epaulettes,” Ron murmured, still distracted by his own malfunctioning robes.

“Well they’re bloody ridiculous. How am I meant to go chasing anyone in all this?”

Ron brightened. “They might laugh so hard they can’t Apparate away?” he offered, and then ducked to avoid Harry’s towel flying toward his head. “Alright, alright. Come on, get the rest on, I want to see what else it does.”

Harry tried to make quick work of the rest of the uniform, still feeling resistant and vaguely resentful, but he couldn’t help marvelling at how intuitive it felt to put it on. No sooner was the tie in his hand than it had snaked up his arm and tied itself in a smart Eldredge knot around his neck. The waistcoat fitted itself snugly around Harry’s torso, stretched and breathed as Harry moved, and the gold threading in the paisley shimmered with its shielding charms. The robes and cape were nowhere near as heavy as they looked, and Harry found that even with the most deliberately awkward and sudden movements, they never tripped him up or caught on any of the furniture in the room. By the time Harry was fully dressed, even Ron was impressed, distracted from his own uniform’s failure to function properly.

“That’s amazing,” Ron said, as Harry swished his cape once more across the locker benches, watching the way the fabric flowed along edges and corners without catching. “Everyone’s going to be so jealous. I can’t wait for you to show Hermione.”

“It’s… yeah.” Harry couldn’t really argue with himself any more. He felt ridiculously formal whenever he looked in a mirror, but the truth was, the uniform felt _incredible_. Not only was it comfortable, and warm, but he felt _relaxed_ in it. The hard knot of tension that Harry had been holding in his shoulders felt like it was easing for the first time in months, and not even his slight guilt at being the only person without any problems could change that.

*

Harry returned to his desk to find the same report still waiting for him. He sat down heavily in his chair, picked up his quill, and scanned the words on the page, mentally cursing himself for having not finished it already. Almost immediately, he felt a shift around him; the uniform seemed to know what he was sitting down to do. The sleeves rolled themselves up, his tie loosened, and his dragonhide boots took on a soft, slipper-like quality. He looked down at himself, momentarily startled, but as he relaxed into it he felt a sense of focus he usually only experienced in the field. He let his eyes dart across the page once more, and got down to work.

An hour later, Harry had finished his report, started another, responded to four memos, and cross-referenced his most recent interviews with those of three known Death Eater sympathisers. He sat back and stretched his arms. That had been the most productive afternoon he’d had in months, and it wasn’t even 2pm. He wiggled his toes, enjoying the feeling of what appeared to be some kind of warm but breathable wool. Incredibly, the boots themselves still looked like high-quality dragonhide brogues.

Looking around, Harry noted that his colleagues weren’t having as much luck. Bertha Babgood’s sleeves had somehow rolled themselves down, over her hands and across the desk. Junior Auror Randall wasn’t at his desk, but buttons covered every inch of every surface around it. And Ron… poor Ron was scribbling in his reports furiously, wearing a mixed expression of anger and discomfort, and as Harry looked down he could see why. Ron’s boots has transformed into a pair of white, fluffy, rabbit-shaped slippers. As Harry stared, one of the rabbits blinked at him.

Harry decided it was probably best not to draw attention to his own good fortune, and resolved instead to go quietly in search of tea and biscuits. Standing up, he reached down to his groin and adjusted himself out of habit.

As his fingers brushed his tackle, a jolt of pleasure seared through him, making him inhale sharply, and his cock twitch with sudden interest.

Harry felt a rush of blood to his face. What the fuck was that? Getting a kick from a quick shift-around, like a horny teenager? Embarrassed, he brushed his hands down the fabric of his trousers to smooth the creases out. His fingers barely brushed his thighs, but it felt like somebody else’s hands, long fingers sweeping their way across his stomach, down to—

“Ohh—”

Harry froze. That moan had definitely come from him. What the _fuck_.

Looking around, he realised that he’d caught the attention of his colleagues after all. Ron cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Everything alright, mate?”

“Yeah,” Harry lied, thinking fast, “Just uh… cramp.”

“Alright,” Ron said, not looking convinced. Thankfully, one of Ron’s slippers chose that moment to bite the other, and the sound of thumping rabbit feet arose from underneath Ron’s desk. Ron gave Harry a miserable look. “Can you do me a cup of tea? And a couple of custard creams? I can’t… they won’t turn back when I stand up.”

Harry nodded dumbly. “Yep. Just gonna… hit the bathroom, first, and then I’ll be back. With your tea. And biscuits. Okay.” He spun around without waiting for a response, and headed straight for the toilets, determined to find out what was happening to him.

Once in, he locked himself in a cubicle, and then stood perfectly still, staring at the wall as he contemplated what he was about to do. He moved one hand down to his crotch, about to touch himself, but held back, half-fearing what might happen, and checking his own sanity.

 _I am not about to have a wank at work_ , he thought.

 _Kind of seems like you are_ , the other, more subconscious, part of his brain replied.

Harry trailed his fingertips lightly over his thigh, and stifled a grunt. It felt amazing. How could it feel that amazing, without even touching himself? It felt different, new, like somebody else’s fingers. Was it the fabric? Something to do with one of the charms? Or was he just discovering a new turn-on? The idea of getting caught had never really appealed to him before, and he felt a bit creepy for considering it at work, even as he continued to cautiously caress himself. He tried to push the thought to one side.

 _I’m just curious,_ he told himself. _I’m just experimenting_.

 _You were just experimenting with Charlie Weasley, too_ , his treacherous brain supplied.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry growled. He slid a palm over his trousers, over his crotch, and a wave of pleasure thrummed through him. He sighed. It was like his whole hand was a vibrator, softly caressing over his cock, his thighs, his balls; he could stroke himself like that for hours, but just a little more pressure, and the sensations ramped up, sending a buzz up from his groin into his stomach and arms, and he knew if he got the angle _just_ right—

He snatched his hand away like it was on fire. Immediately, the intensity and the sense of urgency in his body started to drop. Fucking hell. He took two deep, calming breaths, and then began unbuttoning his belt. He opened his fly, reached inside his trousers and underwear, and took hold of himself.

Nothing.

Well, not _nothing_. He was still thinking about how turned on he had been moments before, and his cock gave a hopeful nudge, but it was… normal. He didn’t feel the same pressing need to bring himself off in a DMLE toilet cubicle.

He skimmed his hand over the top of his trousers again, gritting his teeth to ignore the warm buzz that passed over his skin and the blood flowing directly to his cock. So it definitely _was_ magic, then. All the malfunctioning uniforms in the Ministry, and he had to get the one that turned him into a workplace pervert.

 _I should tell somebody_ , he thought to himself as he zipped and belted himself back up. He reached out to open the cubicle door, and then stopped. The thought of that buzz came back to him. Long, wandering fingers, somebody else’s. And it wasn’t like it was hurting anyone. Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his arm and rested his fingertips over his cock. The lightest touch felt like static, a soft tingle that made Harry desperately want to buck forward and learn what the full press and friction of his hand against the fabric could feel like.

Fuck it. Ron could wait for his tea.

*

Harry found distraction in the rest of the afternoon, throwing himself headfirst into a curse evasion training session with Ron. Two hours of throwing hexes and shields across the DMLE sparring hall was almost enough to make Harry forget about it entirely.

Unfortunately, when he stepped out of the shower into the locker room, and opened his locker to see the uniform swaying slightly under its freshening charm, the memory came back to him, and an uncomfortable mix of arousal and shame pooled in his stomach. When he turned, he saw that Ron was already dressed in his ridiculously oversized robes and staring into the mirror with an expression of dismay. Harry reminded himself that the whole department was having uniform trouble, one way or the other. And he was going to have to tell _somebody_.

“Ron…”

“Yes mate?”

Harry felt his cheeks reddening as he cast around for the right way to phrase his question, and sat down. “How does it feel when you, um... adjust yourself?”

Ron furrowed his brow at him in confusion for a moment, and then an air of dawning comprehension came over his face. He sat down next to Harry, giving him a sympathetic smile and slapping him on the knee. “Look mate, I know it’s been a while for you, and you know I’ve got no problem with you liking blokes, but you can’t just… I mean, I’m not… and Hermione, she’d never—”

“Oh my fucking god, Ron” Harry put his head in his hands, his heart bursting with equal parts embarrassment and affection. “I’m talking about the uniforms! I’m not coming onto you, Jesus Christ.”

“Oh! Oh, thank Merlin,” Ron exhaled, visibly relieved. Harry tried not to take it personally.

“The uniforms,” he continued, “Are they making it har—difficult for you to… you know… re-adjust?”

Ron thought about this for a moment. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but hang on, let me have a try.” And then Ron’s hand disappeared into his trenchcoat, and Harry sent up a silent prayer that the doors would stay closed, and that nobody would walk in on the war hero Harry Potter watching Ron Weasley having a suspicious trouser shuffle in an Auror locker room.

Ron’s hand reappeared. “All good,” he said. “Well, the trousers are still too big, but they didn’t try to stop me or anything. Why? What are yours doing?”

Harry wasn’t sure where to go with that question; he’d lost any inclination to admit that what his trousers were doing was giving him a raging hard-on every time he needed to shift things around a bit. “Nothing really,” he mumbled, settling on a half-truth, “Just gets a bit tight, that’s all.” Okay, a quarter-truth.

Ron rolled his eyes. “If that’s the only thing you’ve got to complain about, you’re still getting off easy.” Harry choked on his water at Ron’s choice of words. Ron didn’t seem to notice. “Oh mate, I’d love to be there when you explain it to Robards, though, that sounds well awkward.” His eyes twinkled, as if imagining the conversation. “Come on, get dressed, we’ve got a suspect to interrogate.”

*

Two weeks passed, and nothing improved. Ron became more and more miserable, and had to take one afternoon off work after his waistcoat had tightened so much around him that he passed out. Harry almost managed to train himself out of absentmindedly adjusting himself at work, but he found himself wearing his uniform home more and more often, pressing his hands against himself as soon as he landed in the fireplace of Grimmauld Place, gasping into the sofa cushions. Robards’ increasingly desperate claims that the magic was settling proved to be unfounded, and after two days in a uniform of his own that seemed to double in size whenever he reached for his coffee, Robards himself had reached breaking point.

“That’s it!” he snapped, mopping up the fourth coffee he’d tried to drink that morning, “I’m calling in the supplier. Anonymity be damned. Dorrie! Get me Parkinson’s number!”

Harry and Ron glanced at each other. “Parkinson?” Ron mouthed, eyes wide.

*

Pansy Parkinson’s arrival at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was not unlike an oncoming storm, Harry thought. First he heard the quiet murmuring around the office, starting at the main doors and working its way down the long line of cubicles toward him. The creaking of chairs, people standing up to get a better look. Then he heard the click of silver-tipped heels come closer, the swish of her snakeskin cloak as she approached, and then finally, dead silence, as she stopped at his desk. Everybody at the DMLE knew there was a history between them—everybody in the wizarding world, in fact, thanks to Witch Weekly’s column on _Harry Potter’s Greatest Enemies!_ —and Harry suspected that his colleagues were hoping for a showdown.

He took a deep breath to brace himself, and looked up. Pansy wore her black hair in her signature sharp bob, and pursed her lips under a deep burgundy lipstick. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, Robards came bursting out of his office, cup of coffee in hand, his uniform flowing all around him. “Ms Parkinson! Do come this way, yes, that’s right, take a seat in my office…” and Parkinson swept away, expressionless.

Ron sidled over to Harry. “Pansy Parkinson, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Reckon she’s the designer?”

Harry frowned, and shook his head. “Robards said she’s the supplier. And she doesn’t strike me as the type, really. She’s all business.”

“Mmm.” Ron looked thoughtful. “Are you gonna be okay with this? I know you and her—”

“She and I are fine,” Harry interrupted. “The war was five years ago. And she sent me that letter, remember.” Over the years, a number of people on the losing side of the war had reached out to Harry, either to apologise or to make excuses. Harry didn’t really begrudge any of them, especially those who had been his age or younger at the time. Pansy’s owl had arrived at Harry’s window two years ago on Halloween, at midnight. She hadn’t lost her flair for the dramatic; Harry often wondered whether she’d intentionally delayed her correspondence until Halloween fell on the night of a full moon. She had offered a genuine expression of regret for publicly suggesting that Slytherin house hand him over to Voldemort, and said that she hoped he understood the pressure that everybody was under, which was so refreshing that it had made him laugh. Only Pansy Parkinson could write an apology letter that made it seem like everybody else was being unreasonable.

Draco Malfoy had also sent a letter. It had been much harder to read.

“In the grand scale of things,” he muttered to Ron, “What Parkinson did isn’t really the worst thing that happened to us that year. Doesn’t even make it into the top five.”

“I suppose.”

“And she seems to be better. I think she’s been in therapy.”

“Haven’t we all,” Ron muttered.

“Mmm. I think she’s a bit scared of me.”

“She’s got every reason to be. And besides, she’s still…”

“She’s still terrifying. Yeah.”

*

An hour and a half later, Pansy Parkinson appeared at Harry’s desk again. This time, Harry was more prepared to attempt some niceties.

“Parkinson.”

“Potter.” She gave him a tight, anxious smile.

“It’s good to see you. You’re looking well. Nice cape.”

Parkinson pressed her lips together and nodded. “Thank you. I need to inspect your uniform, and your partner’s. Robards has offered me his office for the day; I’ve been reviewing each Auror uniform individually from there.”

“Okay. You remember Ron Weasley, don’t you?”

Here, Pansy’s stoic expression faltered for just a moment, but she recovered smoothly, and took Ron’s hand. “Of course. It’s wonderful to see you, Auror Weasley. Congratulations on your wedding, I hear it was a beautiful ceremony. I hope Minister Granger is well?” The platitudes slipped off her tongue as though she’d rehearsed them, and Harry thought about the number of social conventions wealthy purebloods probably had to learn from infancy. Thankfully, Ron was used to wealthy purebloods, and he seemed to understand that this was Pansy trying to be nice.

“Thanks, Parkinson. Hermione’s all good. You can just call me Weasley, no need to stand on ceremony. Come on, let’s have a look at these uniforms.”

Harry got up from his desk and followed Parkinson to Robards’s office. Right on cue, Robards himself came billowing down the corridor.

“Ah!” Robards cried, “Finally getting round to Potter, eh? Seems like he’s the only one having any luck with the blasted uniforms. Come and find me when you’re gone, Ms Parkinson!” And then he was gone again, marching down the hallway, holding his coffee aloft to stop it triggering his own robe malfunction.

Parkinson frowned. As they entered Robards’s room, she closed the door behind them. Harry looked around. Parkinson might not be the tailor, but she clearly knew something of the trade; she had set up measuring stations and magical diagnostic equipment, and bundles of measuring tape gently wound themselves around her wrists as she returned to the desk. In front of her lay a stack of lavender business cards, with silver edging, and the words “Pincushion Modiste” in cursive, with a Diagon Alley address underneath.

When he looked back up at her, her mouth was set in a tight line again.

“Sorry,” she said, “But did Robards say that you’d had no problem with the uniforms?”

“Um… yeah.” Harry might have found a tentative peace with Parkinson, but he didn’t fancy telling her about the one problem he had. “It's... really comfortable.”

“And you’re the only one?”

“Yeah.”

Pansy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned forward, pressing both hands on the desk. “Fucking Draco,” Harry heard her mutter.

“Draco? As in, Malfoy?” Ron asked, “What's he got to do with this?”

Pansy ignored him. She strode across the room to the hearth, grabbed a handful of floo powder,  threw it into the fire and called the Diagon Alley address Harry had spotted on the cards. Then, losing her usual silky-smooth tone, she shouted into the fire.

“Draco!”

A moment later, Harry heard a _pop_ as Draco’s head appeared in the fire, just out of sight of Harry and Ron, but within earshot.

“Hello, Pansy. Everything okay?”

“You tell me, Draco. I'm at the DMLE, investigating the uniform malfunctions. I just wondered whether you might have come up with any solutions since yesterday?”

“No, I'm sorry. I've been researching, but the data is so varied—”

“Hmm, well here's an interesting piece of data for you; it seems there is one Auror who hasn't reported any problem with his uniform at all. Do you think you can guess who that might be?”

“Well… there are bound to be one or two that don't have any complaints… even a stopped clock is right twice a day, you know…”

“So you don't think it's odd that Harry Potter is the only one walking around in a well-fitting uniform?”

Draco sounded flustered. “Look Pansy, I don't know what you're implying, but—”

“I'm not implying anything, Draco! I am outright accusing you! You were supposed to triangulate measurements from _everybody_ for the fitting spell, the whole department, not one bloody Auror!”

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“Don't try to deny it, I know you too well and I can tell when you’re lying. God, I should have known you'd do something like this, for fuck’s _sake_ , Draco—”

Draco snapped. “Yes! Yes, alright. For Merlin’s sake, he only ever wears the same two things thanks to the bloody _Prophet_ , and it’s infuriating. And I know what you’re going to say, ‘haven’t you gotten over that little crush of yours’, well, no, I haven’t, Pans, and fuck it, if you had the opportunity to dress someone you fancy in something that makes them look good—”

“Draco—”

“—and I bet he looks _fucking_ good, doesn’t he? And you know what—”

“ _Draco_ —”

“—you know what, fuck it, if it's perfect for him and shitty for everybody else, that's fine by me, it's about time things were that way round, if he’s the only one who’s comfortable and—”

“ _Draco_!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Potter is _in the room_. He can hear you.”

For a moment, the room fell almost silent, except for the crackle of the fire and the rustling of memos flying past the closed door.

“Oh.”

Harry walked toward the fire, and locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. Malfoy looked older, softer, a look of anxious concentration across his face, flicking his eyes back and forth, to and away from Harry.

Malfoy cleared his throat, and nodded. “Potter,” he said, tightly. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, so he nodded dumbly in response. They stared at each other, in a moment that seemed to stretch across aeons, neither one willing to break the silence.

Before Harry could think of anything to say, Ron helpfully piped up.

“It's not perfect though, is it? Tell them about the trousers, Harry!”

Harry groaned.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “What's wrong with the trousers?”

Harry shifted on his feet. “They're a bit… um… tight. Sometimes.”

Draco frowned. “I don't remember doing anything to the trousers,” he said, “Unless… oh my god.” He raised his hands and buried his face in them. “Oh fucking hell, that was experimental, I’d had a few drinks that night and I— It wasn't supposed to be in the finished garment, oh fuck…”

Ron and Pansy exchanged confused glances. Something in Harry snapped, and he stepped closer to the fire, bending into it until his head was level with Malfoy’s.

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy! Why couldn't you just ask me out for dinner like a normal person?”

Draco laughed, and the defensive tilt to his voice returned. “Yeah, okay,” he spat out from under his hands, “I, reformed Death Eater in hiding, am gonna ask Harry fucking Potter out for dinner. That sounds like the kind of thing a totally sane person would do. Come on Potter, even Pansy told me that would be ridic—”

“Enough!” Harry stood up, suddenly aware that he was shouting. “I’m coming through to talk to you, Malfoy, without anybody else pitching their opinions in, without anybody shouting about measurements or the Daily Prophet or my _fucking_ _trousers_ , and then you’re going to design a new uniform that fits everybody, and Robards is going to get his office back, and we’re all going to go back to work because this is _ridiculous_.” And with that, Harry threw half the floo powder into the grate, snatched a handful of Pansy’s delicately embossed business cards, and shouted the address written at the bottom.

“38, 2B Diagon Alley South!”

*

Harry landed in Malfoy’s grate, and looked up. He was in a small tailoring shop with two large sewing machines taking up half the room. Wooden beams and the slant of the ceiling indicated that it was an attic space. Colour-coordinated threads hung above each workstation. Mannequins lined one wall, and bundles of fabric lay in every corner of the room. Two roughly upholstered chairs in faded, mismatched floral fabrics sat facing the fire.

Harry had expected something more organised. Malfoy looked out of place amidst the mess. Although, Harry thought, looking closer, perhaps he didn’t. Malfoy’s hair hung in soft waves on either side of his face. The sleeves of his oversized shirt were rolled up, and the knees of his tight grey denim jeans were scuffed and slightly worn. He had one arm crossed over his chest, the other raised up to his face, fingers absentmindedly worrying at his lower lip. Harry thought he’d never seen Malfoy look so small, standing in his socks on the threadbare carpet in front of the fireplace. The realisation knocked the fight out of him, and he softened before he spoke.

“Malfoy,” he said, standing, “Hi.”

Malfoy hesitated. Harry took pity on him, and decided to lead.

“What’s going on, Malfoy?”

“You already heard the gist of it, Potter. Don’t make me repeat it, I’m mortified enough as it is.”

Harry allowed himself a small smile. The same old Malfoy was in there somewhere. He sat down in one of the chairs by the fire, and gestured for Malfoy to sit in the chair opposite. They stared at each other, until Harry broke the silence.

“I got your letter. It was a while ago, I know. I’m sorry I didn’t write back. I didn’t really know where to start. I do accept your apology. Um… for the record… I thought you were a little hard on yourself.”

Draco snorted.

Harry shrugged. “Your dad idolised a genocidal cult leader and moved him into your family home. You didn’t get much of a chance. And you still questioned it all, toward the end.”

“Potter…”

Harry shook his head. “Seriously. I know you wanted out, Malfoy, I was there.”

“Potter, can we… not talk about it right now? It’s… it’s too much, still. It takes me a while”

“Okay.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Harry cleared his throat, and tried to focus on the subject at hand.

“So. The uniforms.”

Malfoy hesitated, then sighed, raising his hands in mock defeat. “Well, it does make you look good.”

Harry grinned. “Malfoy, you’ve made fun of my clothes a lot over the years, but I find it hard to believe you went to all this trouble just to put me in a nicer-looking uniform.”

“Well, that wasn’t how it started. I was just doodling some designs, for fun. Couldn’t believe my luck when Pansy found them and said she thought Auror uniform design would get us some good PR.”

“How does that work if you’re anonymous?”

“We’re anonymous for now. Once the label gets a better reputation, I’ll be able to come out as the lead designer without too much backlash. There will always be a bit, but…” Malfoy shrugged.

It was obvious that Malfoy felt like he deserved the backlash. Never mind that he’d reformed, that he’d saved Harry’s life, that the Wizengamot had declared him forgiven and redeemed after the Battle of Hogwarts. To many, he’d always be a Death Eater.

“It’s bullshit that you have to do that,” Harry muttered. Malfoy waved a hand dismissively.

“It is what it is. At least I’m trying to make it easier on myself. You seem to be trying to make life harder for yourself.”

“What?”

“The Aurors!” Malfoy gave a frustrated sigh, and stood up to pace in front of the fire. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, you’ve been in danger so much already, you’ve seen more violence than most people should. And I don’t know, the Auror path seems to appeal most to people who want a bit of power and glory, and I was starting to think you’d had enough of that. I don’t know, I just… wanted to make you comfortable. And safe. You’re… you’re important,” Malfoy finished, looking away.

Harry stood up, and stepped close to Malfoy. They were inches apart. Harry took a steadying breath in the silence, and spoke.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Malfoy. Draco. If that’s okay.”

Draco’s eyes snapped back up to Harry’s. He exhaled, and stared. And then nodded.

Harry placed one hand on Draco’s waist, and reached up to place the other on Draco’s cheek. Then he leaned forward and kissed him. Draco’s lips were soft against his own, hesitant at first, but as Harry applied more pressure, Draco sank into it, wrapping his arms around Harry’s back. Harry pulled back to break the kiss, but didn’t let go of Draco. Instead, he rested his head against Draco’s, and listened to the sound of their breathing until the adrenalin rush coursing through his body started to slow. They stayed like that for a long time, listening to each other without talking, hands running across shoulders and into hair and around arms. Harry felt a familiar, long-abandoned feeling return to him: the feeling of wanting Draco Malfoy.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered.

Draco laughed, and bit his lip. “Yeah.”

“I…” Harry faltered, unsure about where to go from here. “It is an amazing uniform. It feels incredible. God, putting it on in the morning, feeling it button and belt itself, it’s like… it feels like hands on my skin. Did you do that on purpose?”

Draco shrugged. “Sort of. It was a natural result of the spells, and I was going to reduce it, it seemed a bit weird, but then I saw that photo of you in the Prophet, you know, after, um...”

Harry remembered the photo, remembered how he’d felt when the Prophet had got wind of his tryst with Charlie and camped outside his house for six nights. When he finally opened the door, he’d shouted at them to fuck off and leave him alone. He was tired, angry. Lonely, for the first time in years. The photos were front page news by lunchtime.

Harry closed his eyes, shook his head. “It’s incredible,” he breathed against Draco’s skin. “You’re incredible. This was such a kind thing for you to do. I mean, don't get me wrong, it’s also kind of creepy, but I appreciate it.”

“I know it is,” Draco laughed, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I kind of lost my senses. I just wanted you to be comfortable.”

“I am.” Harry smiled. “God, it’s a dream to wear. It almost makes me wish I wasn’t quitting the Aurors.”

Draco froze. “You’re quitting?”

Harry nodded. "Yeah. End of the month. I’m just finishing my last case. You’re right, it’s not good for me. I’m tired of chasing bad guys. I’ve taken the Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching post up at Hogwarts, starts in September.” Harry smiled, and reached for Draco. “Now, about this problem with my trousers…”

Draco took a step backwards. “You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that I spent years— _years_ —creating the perfect Auror uniform, designed to your _exact measurements_ , perfectly optimised _just for you_... and you’re _quitting_?”

Harry blinked, confused. “What?”

“Fucking hell, do you know what I went through to build this? Self-buttoning shirts don’t just fall off trees, you know! And I spent weeks with the centaurs, learning the right kind of charms to deflect projectiles. The shield charms in the threading took months to perfect, I had to cultivate a whole new strain of cotton. And, oh god,” he moaned, “calculating the measurements took fucking _ages_. I know I was supposed to use everybody’s but the result wouldn’t have been as good. I can’t believe I'm hearing this.”

“I’m… sorry…?”

“I bet you haven’t even tried the cushioning charm yet. I was so proud of that, too. I’m sorry, Potter, you can’t quit.”

“What? But you said—”

“Well no, okay, yes, obviously you must quit. But oh my god, your timing is terrible.”

Harry tried and failed to hide a smile. Draco looked up, and returned a sheepish grin of his own.

“This is pretty weird, Draco.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

Harry looked him over again. It was still Malfoy—the same Malfoy who made stupid, panicked decisions, out of fear and a warped sense of self-preservation—but it was also Draco. Draco, who didn’t know how to care about somebody except from afar. Draco, who applied absolute bloody single-mindedness to whatever project he decided would help him achieve a goal. Draco, standing there in his tiny sewing attic, carefully piecing together a soft, warm, quiet life. Staring back at Harry with wide, grey eyes, still smiling, cautious hope flickering across his face.

Harry had always felt something for Malfoy. It hit him with a force that knocked the breath out of him that he could feel _everything_ for Draco.

“I think… I think I’m going to need a new set of clothes when I start teaching.”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, and the smile on his face broadened.

“And,” Harry continued, “I think I’d like to take you out for dinner. But first...” Harry grabbed Draco, walked him over to the soft chairs, and sat down, pulling Draco onto his lap, “First, I think you’re going to help me with this little tailoring problem I’m having.”

Draco grinned, hummed in agreement, and started to trail his hand down toward Harry’s trousers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I am on tumblr at **phornex** if you wanna say hi! Feel free to leave a comment below, I love them!


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